This was my third visit in as many weeks. Every time, I brought a MoonPie. And every time, when he finished, he smoothed out the cellophane wrapper, folded it in half and then in half again, and tucked it in his pocket. Twice now I’d watched in silence. But curiosity won out, and I wasn’t going to make it three.
“Why do you do that?” I asked, breaking stride and doubling over, my hands on my knees.
“Do what?” he asked.
“The wrappers. Why do you save them?”
“Docs used to say it’s somethin’ broke,” he said, tapping a finger to his temple, “but I never gave that much truck. I just like savin’ stuff, I guess. Keeps me from forgettin’. Come on, it’s just a little further.”
We continued on, cresting a small ridge and sidestepping our way down a steep, fern-covered slope. When we reached the bottom, Isaac swept aside a tangle of underbrush and turned to me. “What do you think?”
We stood at the edge of a lush, green valley, wide at one end and narrow at the other. Much of the valley was taken up by the stream, which pooled, clear and cool, the width of the valley mouth. At the narrow end, a cascade of water fell maybe twenty feet, feeding the pool.
“It’s amazing,” I said. Isaac smiled.
“There’s a cave back behind it,” he said, gesturing toward the waterfall. “Ain’t more’n a few feet deep, an’ a little wet for an old fogy like me, but I expect a strapping young man like yourself’d find it to his liking.”
I was off in a flash. Isaac hunkered down on the shore of the pond, pulled some line and a hook from his jacket, and set about overturning rocks, hunting for worms.
We spent the whole day out there, Isaac fishing, me exploring. By evening, I was soaked and exhausted. I lay on the bank of the stream, drying myself by the heat of the sun. Isaac filleted his day’s catch, humming tunelessly to himself as knife parted flesh.
“I should be heading home,” I said. “Mom’s expecting me for dinner.”
“Be dark soon,” he replied. “I’ll walk you back.”
“I’m not an infant, Isaac.”
“Never said you were. But these woods ain’t safe.”
“I can handle myself.”
“All right,” he replied. “But do an old man a favor and stick to the stream, okay?”
“Okay. See you later, Isaac.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I expect you will.”
It was stupid, I thought. Sticking to the stream. If I had my bearings right, town was due east of here, and the stream was taking me southeast. When I hit Isaac’s shack, I’d have to head north, and I wouldn’t get home for an hour. I was sure I could shave off a few minutes if I just cut through the woods. And what was the harm? Isaac would never know the difference.
Once I cleared the gully, I put the sun behind me and plunged into the forest. It was cooler in the shade of the trees, and I shivered, my clothes still damp from the spray of the fall. I trudged exhausted through the woods, the ever-deepening shadows pointing the way. It wasn’t long before I came to the lean-to.
It wasn’t much to look at, just a rotten, sagging piece of plywood propped against a tree. But its right angles stood out against the chaotic backdrop of the forest, and I knew I had to see what it was.
The first thing I noticed was the smell — a tang like pennies in the back of my throat. I approached slowly. The ground under the lean-to had been brushed clear of leaves, the dirt beneath tamped down and littered with bits of fur. Tacked to the underside of the board were yellowed scraps of newspaper, stained with flecks of brown.
I crouched beside the lean-to, peering at the clippings. The text was difficult to read by the failing light. The headlines, though, were clear enough. Animal Disappearances Plague Richmond Community. Predation Suspected in Recent Animal Deaths. Pet Problem Escalates: Sheriff Says Coyotes.
I felt sick. I scrambled backward, away from the lean-to. My shoulder connected with something behind me, and I screamed.
“You weren’t meant to see this.”
It was Isaac. I screamed again and backed away. He grabbed me by the shoulders. Strong, unyielding. I kicked at him. He didn’t let go.
“This ain’t mine, boy, you hear me? This ain’t mine.”
“Then whose?” I fought his grip. It was like iron.
“Damn it, kid, if I wanted to hurt you, I’da done it before now.”
“Whose is it?”
“Don’t know. Not yet. But I will. An’ until I do, you’re not to come near this place, you hear me?”
I nodded. He let me go.
“You an’ me,” he said, “we’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “We’re okay.”
“All right,” he said. “Then let’s get you home.”
I didn’t venture into the woods again that week, or at all the week after. I hung close to my house, shooting hoops in the driveway or skateboarding in the street, careful never to venture farther than a couple of blocks away, for fear that Billy was waiting. But as summer stretched on into August, the heat became unbearable, and I became listless and bored. I’d lie about, daydreaming about the vast expanses of unexplored forest, of the cool spray of the waterfall against my face, and of Isaac, fishing away the days alone.
Isaac. He must think I was scared of him. I don’t know — maybe I should have been. That place and the things that had gone on there were too terrifying to contemplate. Most nights since, I’d awoken with a scream on my lips and a taste like pennies in the back of my throat. But Isaac was a good man. I refused to believe he was capable of such horrors.
I decided I had to apologize. I snatched a MoonPie from the cupboard and set out for the woods. When I got to Isaac’s shack, though, he was nowhere to be seen. I checked out all his favorite fishing holes, but there was no sign of him. I hiked the length of the stream to the waterfall, scanning the underbrush for any sign I was being watched, but there was no stalker in the woods, and there was no Isaac, either. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, I turned toward home, defeated. I was still a hundred yards from the street when I heard the calls.
“Timothy! TIMOTHY!”
My mother, panicked and shrill. I was sure I’d been caught. I started toward the street, and then thought better of it, pushing through the underbrush and into the Bennett’s backyard. I sprinted from yard to yard, the houses screening me from view of the street, my mother screaming all the while. I ducked onto a cross-street and rounded the corner. She spotted me immediately.
“Timothy, where have you been! I called the Mercers and they said they hadn’t seen you all day—”
“I went up to the school with Ben to play some kickball,” I said. She grabbed me and held me so tight I thought my ribs would crack. “What’s going on?”
“Just come inside, okay?”
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“Inside.”
She dragged me into the house. Dad was on the phone, pacing. When he saw us come through the door, he stopped.
“Never mind,” he said into the receiver, “we found him.” He hung up the phone. “Where the hell have you been? Your mother was worried sick about you.”
“I was playing kickball up at the school. What’s the matter?”
“It’s the Ashbrook girl,” Mom said. “She’s gone missing.”
“She hasn’t gone missing,” Dad snapped. “She was taken. They found her bike on the side of the road, coupla blocks from her house. Looked like there was a struggle. Half the town’s looking for her. For you, too, thanks to your mother. You gave us a hell of a scare, kiddo.”